


just with a touch of your lips

by erlkoenig



Series: Kink Bingo [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bëor has an elf problem, Elves are weird and elvish sounds otherworldly and you can pry this from my cold dead hands, Flirting by way of linguistics, M/M, kink bingo, language barriers make excellent foreplay, or rather specifically Bëor has a Finrod problem, which is something I never expected to write for these two but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 09:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: Balan scowls, andfeelsmore than hears the next,I have no idea what you are saying.“Yes well, that makes two of us.”





	just with a touch of your lips

Nom is speaking. 

No, that does not quite do it justice, lilting, flowing tones like a song even now. An explanation, likely a boring one were Balan able to understand it truly and even now he feels his eyes glass over, his lips parted as he listens. Not to the words, but to the melody. It is not music like anything his people know, not music he would even find particularly beautiful, were he honest with himself.

He can remember that night so clearly it might have just happened. Waking with a start, cold fear running its fingers down his spine as he reached for a weapon, the handle of his axe and finding only a small dagger. Curse him any other night for being so foolish, but providence saved them all that night perhaps. That eerie sound, then so frightening in its otherworldliness, the elf singing, plucking at the strings of the harp and lost in a world of his own making. The dying embers of the fire, the trees in the darkness, seemed to shimmer, to move to the sound. Not a dance, but rather some terrible sleeping thing awakened from deep slumber and called to be.

Perhaps Balan sees himself instead. Perhaps not.

Nom fixes those too bright, too wide eyes on him and he  _ knows _ he is expected to answer something. Blinks, and tries to remember something of the nonsensical notes.

_ Were you listening? _

He moves his mouth, closes it. Furrows his brow and wonders  _ how _ but Nom only laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Points to the tree and says something that Balan does not quite catch. Balan can only watch helplessly, still entranced by the sound.

“What is it -- what?”

Nom touches the bark and repeats the word.  _ Oh. _

“Yes, yes a  _ galadh _ .” And Nom startles at that, the corner of his mouth twitching. “We picked up some of the elf language from the others you know, you’re not the first. You’re just the first like --” gestures vaguely and looks away at last. “Like you.”

Nom tilts his head, golden hair spilling over his shoulder, and laugh. It shakes his frame, and nearly doubles him over for a moment.

Balan scowls, and  _ feels _ more than hears the next,  _ I have no idea what you are saying. _

“Yes well, that makes two of us.”

\------

The third time Nom trips over a root, he hisses. “Fuck.”

Balan nearly falls over himself.

“What -- what did you just say?” And Nom turns and beams at him, a hint of mischief playing over his face, a flash of teeth that seem almost too-sharp. “Now where did you pick that one up?”

Nom shrugs, and Balan realizes just how much the elf has picked up of their habits. How he’s _changed_ _them_ , a gesture that is an explanation at best and insubordinate at worst is a challenge now, a meaning in and of itself that is purely _Nom_.

Balan suspects the culprit may very well be himself, and how much he himself has changed now.

In the beginning he had been so careful, at first not using the sparse elvish his people knew out of fear of offense, be it his pronunciation or the dialect itself. Then, peppering his stilted speech with everything he knew, desperate to impress this elf. Changing his own manner of speaking to be less harsh, less crude, softening his words and consonants to match the lilt and tone of Nom. 

And now, he simply doesn’t give a shit. He finds himself pointing to some object and naming it,  _ rock _ or  _ wren _ or  _ dead fox,  _ knowing that Nom will nod, will squirrel the word away for later. And then later, around the fire, when he’s forgotten both himself and their shared barriers, begs Nom for a story.

Yet, somehow, Nom  _ knows _ . He knows, and will begin some tale -- or perhaps a continuation of some made up drivel he started that first night with the harp -- and then, like a dash of cold water to the face, Nom will use one of the words that Balan taught him. It stands out, startling Balan every time, slightly accented but otherwise perfect.  _ Stone _ , he says, and then continues in his own language.  _ Carrion _ one night,  _ jewel _ another. Now, when Nom tells his stories, there are more and more words and Balan can taste his heart beating behind his teeth, copper and sick and he wants to hear more.

“Fuck.” Balan murmurs to himself, pushes his fingers through his mane of tight curls and sighs. Nom looks back at him and arches an eyebrow, a flicker of a smirk and then he’s off again, not even watching for roots or rocks or other things.

_ Oh. _ And Balan laughs in spite of himself, not caring. Let it be one more thing he’s taught him.

\-------

Balan has a problem.

He can pinpoint the  _ exact _ moment it began, and hums the tune, remembering long fingers plucking at harp strings.

Those fingers now twisting coils of his hair around them, and Balan closes his eyes, trying to let himself --  _ force himself _ , if he must -- enjoy it.

But it’s neither hands nor song that is the problem, it’s a mouth. Specifically, it is  _ Nom’s _ mouth, and how much Balan would like to hear it making  _ other sounds _ .

For all the ethereal beauty of the elf’s language, he wonders what filthy things that tongue can pronounce, the shapes those lips would form as Nom would say something  _ wretched _ , something to make some elf maiden or lad blush and sweat. But that’s not all.

Balan closes his eyes and his mind wanders, drifts away to that day in the forest and that root, that blessed root that pulled the word  _ fuck _ from Nom for the first time and sent Balan’s fixation spiraling ever into awful, awful places.

He grins lazily. Whatever filthy things the elves might say, he wants to hear Nom same them in  _ his _ language. Wants that voice to wrap around  _ his _ words, accented and whispered, words that would make Balan’s pulse race, lungs desperate for air and fingers twitching to hold the elf down and do everything Nom demands of him.

There’s a sharp tug, fingers catching in his curls and he hisses through his teeth, opening one eye as he tilts his head back to look at Nom. He imagines a blush on those high cheekbones, a different kind of light in his eyes as he tells him  _ harder, faster, deeper. _

There are, after all, many ways to communicate. A touch, sweat slick skin against slick skin, fingertips pressing bruises into sharp hips, thighs. Nom would be loud -- he never shuts up and oh how Balan  _ adores _ it. Soft, breathy gasps giving way to guttural moans, fragments of a sentence, something with  _ please  _ and  _ fuck me _ and  _ gods yes, just like that, fuck me hard. _

This is no place to be thinking such things, and Balan shifts, tries to pull away, but fingers twist in his hair, holding him in place.

“Balan.” Nom says, his voice a purr that makes him shiver. “You are so obsessed with words, and yet you do not use them.”

He feels his heart stop, his face flushing for a different reason -- the wrong reason, cold water in his veins. 

“What is it you say?” Nom leans down, his breath hot against his ear. “If you want something, you have to say so.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Balan tilts his head, lets a rumbling sort of groan escape him as Nom holds tight on his hair, pulling. “Therein lies the problem,” he says, his mouth dry as he reaches back, sliding his fingers up Nom’s calf. “You see, I want to hear  _ you _ say it.”

And oh, he can  _ hear _ that cursed smirk in his voice. “As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> moringottos.tumblr.com


End file.
